Chipped
by Anti-Logic
Summary: In which Azula paints her nails.


A/N: Spoilers for Boiling Rock.

So I should be working on Sing Me Down or my Bartimaeus Trilogy fic right now, and believe me, I will. But I wanted to do something to celebrate the thousandth hit to my profile page. Not a huge number compared to a lot of people, but still. Besides, I've kind of wanted an excuse to write this drabble thing ever since I saw the trailer for the end of the series. Azula looked positively insane. :D I think she's finally losing it.

I do not own Avatar. And um...could you do me a huge favor and review? It doesn't take that long, and I just want to know if you think I did a good job. Writing Azula is a little new for me.

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She painted her nail in long, even strokes. The waxing and waning of the candle before her hand made the color flicker with it, brightening and then darkening nearly to black. She could be doing this with more light, of course; it wouldn't be too difficult for her to suspend a small flame with even one finger. But she wanted to devote her entire attention to the task at hand. The paint on her left middle finger had chipped in the day's conflict. It was just a tiny sliver, invisible if one wasn't looking, but she was bent on sending it back to its flawless state. Fitting for a flawless person.

Long, even strokes.

A blemish of her nails, like a loose strand of hair, was a sign of imperfection in her fighting technique. When had she…

Of course. When she had hit the ground. When her limbs had failed her completely. She, Azula, the Fire Nation princess and born prodigy, had been felled by two swift fists on her back.

It was silly of her to wonder when it had chipped. She had…lost this battle, hadn't she? The thought almost made her want to laugh. It wasn't a fair fight anyway, so why did it matter? Then again…who was she to complain about dirty tactics? They had learned well.

She held her hand close to the light. No no, that wouldn't do. Now the polish was thicker on that nail than the others. She'd just have to paint over the rest of the nails on that hand. Dipping her graceful tool into the shallow bowl of paint, she began again on her thumb.

Why had they done it? Why would they possibly choose him – each other – over her? She was the one who had taught them everything _useful _that they knew. She was the one who had rescued them from their dull, unfulfilling lives among stupid, incompetent people. The fools. They could have been so much more.

It was a truly a pity, she decided as she finished off her pinky finger. Instead of fulfilling their potential with her, they were wasting away in some dungeon right now. And they had only themselves to blame. It was entirely _their fault. _

She held up her left hand once again, followed by the other, giving out a quiet, disappointed hiss as she noted the color difference between the two. She began on the right hand.

No matter, they were only pawns. Never mind that they had been her most useful pawns, the ones who had been with her since she was small and naïve and emotionally defenseless. Back when she had those she considered friends among the nobles' court. No matter that she had still referred to them as her friends a day ago.

Her hand was shaking slightly now. That wouldn't do. She needed long, even strokes, and she forced it to be still. Anything could be made to obey if enough pressure was applied. Anything except childhood friends. And brothers. And mothers.

She felt the coolness on her fingertip that meant she had overshot. She cursed, a bit louder than she had meant, and reached for the water pitcher. But there was something so very wrong with her hand tonight, and all it managed to do was knock it over from the small table, causing the clay to shatter and the water to run around her knees. She stood up almost frantically, bashing her knee against the table and swearing even more loudly. She spun on the spot, conjuring a ball of fire with which to examine her surroundings. Rich colors, beautiful tapestries, and empty, echoing stones.

She kicked the table, knocking it over and dumping the paint on the floor where it mingled with the water. Her whole body suddenly felt feverish as she pressed her wet nails into her palms, harder and harder until she drew blood.

Then there was dizziness, and a simple sense of reckless physical motion without any idea where it was going.

She might have screamed a little.

Her bed robe was getting damp at the edges, and her feet were soaked. Some of the elaborate decorations had found their way to the floor, scratch marks ripped into the linens and the corners of the tapestries charred black. She examined her nails. Chipped. She'd need to fix those before the night was through…once she had found more polish.

She'd be perfect eventually, after all.


End file.
